Narrator: We didn't really accomplish anything that night. Nothing of any real importance, anyway. But through the high school years that lay ahead... there would be a thousand other nights, just like that one. Stupid, ridiculous... and glorious.

Narrator: We didn't talk any more on the way home than we did on the way out. But, maybe we listened a little bit more... To what was being said inside us.

Narrator: We'd come this far. No sense turning back, now. We fished the rest of that day. We didn't catch much. Dad said he'd like to move up here, and open a bait shop. I told him it was a great idea. I think he believed it. And in the end... I guess we finally figured out why we'd come here in the first place. We'd come... to say goodbye.

Narrator: Well, I'd learned one thing in advanced math class. I'd learned I was going to fail. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow - but soon, and for the rest of my life.

Narrator: What we felt in those years, the hope, the joy, the possibilities, the sense that anything might happen no matter who we were, will always be a part of us. After all, people said the Beatles would never last, and they were right... except of course they did.

Narrator: When I look back on it now, I feel sorry for Gary. When all was said and done, he was just a little kid, and I guess he needed friends. But all Paul and I knew that night was - that we wanted to go home.
Norma: Kevin! What are you doing here? Did something happen? Are you OK?
Kevin: Yeah, we're fine. We just felt like coming home.
Narrator: It was the truth. But not the whole truth. And looking at my mom and my dad - standing there in their bathrobes, worried about me - I felt a little sick about that. I don't know why, but that night - for the first time in a long time - I didn't have a single nightmare.

Narrator: When I was a kid, anytime I needed a lift... there was my grandfather. The guy was always good for a ride. Sure, he was as old as the hills... but to me... Gramps was Hercules in bi-focals. Superman in suspenders. He was ageless... timeless... one man in a million. You could always count on him. Not that everyone shared my view. It was kind of a ritual around our house. Gramps visited, Mom cooked, Dad groused... and I... I borrowed the keys to the car.

Narrator: When I was growing up, summer vacations meant one thing - fun. Two solid months of goofing off, hanging out, and sleeping late. June, July and August were a time when anything was possible, when the hardships of school were over, and the promise of great times lay ahead. As for me that summer of nineteen-seventy-two, I was sixteen. Still young enough to bask in the pleasures of summer. The real delights... the harbingers of doom. It was grim. Within hours of his graduation, my brother had been Shanghai'd by the American workforce. Not that I wasn't sympathetic. Still, it was about time the Wayner got a taste of the old Puritan work ethic. I mean after all, this was Wayne's problem, not mine. Until of course, it was. Oh, God. Here they came. Those two words which meant death to summer fun.

Narrator: When Paul and I were little kids... we had our birthdays only four days apart. Come to think of it, we still have our birthdays only four days apart. But I guess birthdays aren't as big a part of life as they used to be. Man - we has some classic parties. Year after year we reached for manhood together. When we fell short... we fell short together. God - we couldn't wait to get older.

Narrator: When you are a little kid, you are a bit of everything - artist, scientist, athlete, scholar. Sometimes, it seems life is like a process of giving those things up, one by one. I guess we all have one thing we regret giving up. One thing we really miss. And we gave up because we were too lazy. We couldn't stick it out. Or because we were afraid.

Narrator: When you're a kid, it's simple. Christmas is magic. It's a time of miracles, when reindeer can fly, and Frosty never melts. Then you get older. Somehow, things change. The magic begins to fade. Until something happens that reminds you, at Christmas time... miracles still can be found. Sometimes in the most unexpected places.

Narrator: When you're a little boy, you don't have to go very far to find the center of your universe. Mom. She's always there. It's a pretty good arrangement - when you're five. But around age thirteen, there starts to be... a problem. The problem is...she's always there. And I mean always. Now a mom has to be a mom, but a guy's gotta be a guy. And when an irresistible force meets an immovable object... Sooner or later - something's gotta give.

Narrator: When you're fourteen, you know a lot of things. How to throw a spiral... how to fix a bike. But standing there... I knew I couldn't fix what was wrong.

Narrator: When you're thirteen, it's a long way to Albuquerque. Teri told me about getting her learner's permit, and taking her first drive with a stick-shift. She wrote of our night at the beach. She told me she missed me so much that she cried herself to sleep at night. And she promised to write to me, until we saw each other again. I keep that letter in an old shoebox. It was the only letter she ever wrote me.

Narrator: Whenever I look back on growing up in the suburbs, there's one thing I remember most clearly. Our neighbors, the Pfeiffer's... were always there. But we were more than just neighbors. We were like one big happy family. And at the heart of it all... were our dads. The men who set the tone. My dad, the athlete... and Paul's dad, the optometrist. Under their watchful eyes... our families grew, and prospered. One for all, and all for one. Until, that is, things started to change.